


Fear No More

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Golden lads and girls all must / As chimney sweepers come to dust.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear No More

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _\- For CVH._   
> 

 

He looks at the body and swears he can taste the sea salt.

Memories of a clouded beach on a chilly day come back to him in waves, crashing along a briny shore; memories of a younger, simpler time, when the only problems involved staying out too late exploring and insulting the guests. He could see a younger, thinner Mycroft sitting on the chaise reading (for even on holidays he worked and studied- like father like son)- see a stronger, more animated Mummy, putting out watermelon slices cut obsessively the same, for perfection needs its outlets.

But most of all he could remember the water; the cooling force of it on his skinny, knobby limbs, the coarser sand beneath his toes. And the taste? One harsh enough to burn his eyes and flood his nose, practically rub his throat raw. He'd tried to cough and clear it away but the pain just persisted, growing worse and worse, and no number of Mummy's watermelon slices could make it go away.

But this body... He looks at it and he can taste that salty water, though he can't hear the gulls. Looks at it and can't feel the sand, the spray. Looks at it and knows he's far from the sea.

But that burning feeling is still in the back of his throat, burning through larynx, trachea, lungs. And he's quickly finding it hard to speak without suffering from the overwhelming urge to vomit. To breathe through the tearing in his lungs.

Mummy's been dead for fifteen years, three months, twenty-three days. There's no comfort in the form of symmetrical fruit to help him now.

 

He looks at the body and feels like time's rushing forward far too quickly.

As if he just noticed the breakneck pace of his horse, racing along the dusty track. He was in the lead, the competition trailing behind in the reddish dust. He could feel the whipping of the wind against his face as he tasted the first cool sips of an easy victory thundering ahead of him. But he had started too quickly, lost too much stamina in the first leg. Pretty soon his competition- Life, the ultimate opponent - would catch up to him, shatter that illusion of winning.

It was only a matter of time before that illusion to be lost and the sand filtered through his fingers, before everything became nothing and yet at the same was still everything, before the final crescendo of the music and the crash of cymbals, before the sirens came to take him away as well, lock him up, pack him in a body bag, stuff him in a morgue, throw him a pity party cleverly disguised as a funeral; before his life ended for the second time and everything was moving and shouting and screaming and whirring and spinning and all he wished for that it would just all

 

Stop.

 

Breathe.

 

_Breathe through your burning lungs, your burning heart. Start again._

 

He looks at the body and thinks that it's far too cold.

It's only been fifteen minutes since they found it. It should still be retaining body heat in some form, should still feel somewhat alive. The temperature should be only a few degrees cooler, if at all. But the pavement seeps the cold, trading it for greedily sucking up the spilled blood. Rigor mortis would set in no less than three hours later, but for now the body was still pliable, still movable. But then three hours would pass, then more, and soon there wouldn't be anything left but dust. Dust and bones and dirt. _(Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney sweepers come to dust.)_

John- warm, friendly John- has no right to be this cold.

He looks at the body, John's body, and begs fruitlessly, _Please, God, let him live._

 

_Please, God, let me die._


End file.
